No More Learning

If we keep our hearts in this matter Russia will be free.






RUSSIAN SUFFERERS



On December 18, 1905, an entertainment was given at the Casino
for the benefit of the Russian sufferers. After the
performance Mr. Clemens spoke.

LADIES AND GENTLEMEN,--It seems a sort of cruelty to inflict upon an
audience like this our rude English tongue, after we have heard that
divine speech flowing in that lucid Gallic tongue.

It has always been a marvel to me--that French language; it has always
been a puzzle to me. How beautiful that language is. How expressive it
seems to be. How full of grace it is.

And when it comes from lips like those, how eloquent and how liquid
it is. And, oh, I am always deceived--I always think I am going to
understand it.

Oh, it is such a delight to me, such a delight to me, to meet Madame
Bernhardt, and laugh hand to hand and heart to heart with her.

I have seen her play, as we all have, and oh, that is divine; but I have
always wanted to know Madame Bernhardt herself--her fiery self. I have
wanted to know that beautiful character.

Why, she is the youngest person I ever saw, except myself--for I always
feel young when I come in the presence of young people.

I have a pleasant recollection of an incident so many years ago--when
Madame Bernhardt came to Hartford, where I lived, and she was going
to play and the tickets were three dollars, and there were two lovely
women--a widow and her daughter--neighbors of ours, highly cultivated
ladies they were; their tastes were fine and elevated, but they were
very poor, and they said "Well, we must not spend six dollars on a
pleasure of the mind, a pleasure of the intellect; we must spend it, if
it must go at all, to furnish to somebody bread to eat. "

And so they sorrowed over the fact that they had to give up that great
pleasure of seeing Madame Bernhardt, but there were two neighbors
equally highly cultivated and who could not afford bread, and those
good-hearted Joneses sent that six dollars--deprived themselves of it--and
sent it to those poor Smiths to buy bread with. And those Smiths took it
and bought tickets with it to see Madame Bernhardt.

Oh yes, some people have tastes and intelligence also.

Now, I was going to make a speech--I supposed I was, but I am not. It
is late, late; and so I am going to tell a story; and there is this
advantage about a story, anyway, that whatever moral or valuable thing
you put into a speech, why, it gets diffused among those involuted
sentences and possibly your audience goes away without finding out what
that valuable thing was that you were trying to confer upon it; but,
dear me, you put the same jewel into a story and it becomes the keystone
of that story, and you are bound to get it--it flashes, it flames, it is
the jewel in the toad's head--you don't overlook that.

Now, if I am going to talk on such a subject as, for instance, the lost
opportunity--oh, the lost opportunity. Anybody in this house who has
reached the turn of life--sixty, or seventy, or even fifty, or along
there--when he goes back along his history, there he finds it mile-stoned
all the way with the lost opportunity, and you know how pathetic that
is.

You younger ones cannot know the full pathos that lies in those
words--the lost opportunity; but anybody who is old, who has really lived
and felt this life, he knows the pathos of the lost opportunity.

Now, I will tell you a story whose moral is that, whose lesson is that,
whose lament is that.

I was in a village which is a suburb of New Bedford several years
ago--well, New Bedford is a suburb of Fair Haven, or perhaps it is the
other way; in any case, it took both of those towns to make a great
centre of the great whaling industry of the first half of the nineteenth
century, and I was up there at Fair Haven some years ago with a friend
of mine.

There was a dedication of a great town-hall, a public building, and we
were there in the afternoon. This great building was filled, like this
great theatre, with rejoicing villagers, and my friend and I started
down the centre aisle. He saw a man standing in that aisle, and he said
"Now, look at that bronzed veteran--at that mahogany-faced man. Now, tell
me, do you see anything about that man's face that is emotional? Do you
see anything about it that suggests that inside that man anywhere there
are fires that can be started? Would you ever imagine that that is a
human volcano? "

"Why, no," I said, "I would not. He looks like a wooden Indian in front
of a cigar store. "

"Very well," said my friend, "I will show you that there is emotion even
in that unpromising place. I will just go to that man and I will just
mention in the most casual way an incident in his life. That man is
getting along toward ninety years old. He is past eighty. I will mention
an incident of fifty or sixty years ago. Now, just watch the effect, and
it will be so casual that if you don't watch you won't know when I do
say that thing--but you just watch the effect. "

He went on down there and accosted this antiquity, and made a remark
or two. I could not catch up. They were so casual I could not recognize
which one it was that touched that bottom, for in an instant that old
man was literally in eruption and was filling the whole place with
profanity of the most exquisite kind. You never heard such accomplished
profanity. I never heard it also delivered with such eloquence.

I never enjoyed profanity as I enjoyed it then--more than if I had been
uttering it myself. There is nothing like listening to an artist--all
his passions passing away in lava, smoke, thunder, lightning, and
earthquake.

Then this friend said to me: "Now, I will tell you about that. About
sixty years ago that man was a young fellow of twenty-three, and had
just come home from a three years' whaling voyage. He came into that
village of his, happy and proud because now, instead of being chief
mate, he was going to be master of a whaleship, and he was proud and
happy about it.

"Then he found that there had been a kind of a cold frost come upon that
town and the whole region roundabout; for while he had been away the
Father Mathew temperance excitement had come upon the whole region.
Therefore, everybody had taken the pledge; there wasn't anybody for
miles and miles around that had not taken the pledge.

"So you can see what a solitude it was to this young man, who was fond
of his grog. And he was just an outcast, because when they found he
would not join Father Mathew's Society they ostracized him, and he went
about that town three weeks, day and night, in utter loneliness--the only
human being in the whole place who ever took grog, and he had to take it
privately.

"If you don't know what it is to be ostracized, to be shunned by your
fellow-man, may you never know it. Then he recognized that there
was something more valuable in this life than grog, and that is the
fellowship of your fellow-man. And at last he gave it up, and at nine
o'clock one night he went down to the Father Mathew Temperance Society,
and with a broken heart he said: 'Put my name down for membership in
this society. '

"And then he went away crying, and at earliest dawn the next morning
they came for him and routed him out, and they said that new ship of his
was ready to sail on a three years' voyage. In a minute he was on board
that ship and gone.

"And he said--well, he was not out of sight of that town till he began to
repent, but he had made up his mind that he would not take a drink, and
so that whole voyage of three years was a three years' agony to that man
because he saw all the time the mistake he had made.

"He felt it all through; he had constant reminders of it, because the
crew would pass him with their grog, come out on the deck and take it,
and there was the torturous Smell of it.

"He went through the whole, three years of suffering, and at last coming
into port it was snowy, it was cold, he was stamping through the snow
two feet deep on the deck and longing to get home, and there was his
crew torturing him to the last minute with hot grog, but at last he had
his reward. He really did get to shore at last, and jumped and ran
and bought a jug and rushed to the society's office, and said to the
secretary:

"'Take my name off your membership books, and do it right away! I have
got a three years' thirst on. '

"And the secretary said: 'It is not necessary. You were blackballed! '"






WATTERSON AND TWAIN AS REBELS



ADDRESS AT THE CELEBRATION OF ABRAHAM LINCOLN'S 92ND BIRTHDAY
ANNIVERSARY, CARNEGIE HALL, FEBRUARY 11, 1901, TO RAISE FUNDS
FOR THE LINCOLN MEMORIAL UNIVERSITY AT CUMBERLAND GAP, TENN.

LADIES AND GENTLEMEN,--The remainder of my duties as presiding chairman
here this evening are but two--only two. One of them is easy, and the
other difficult. That is to say, I must introduce the orator, and then
keep still and give him a chance. The name of Henry Watterson carries
with it its own explanation. It is like an electric light on top of
Madison Square Garden; you touch the button and the light flashes up out
of the darkness. You mention the name of Henry Watterson, and your
minds are at once illuminated with the splendid radiance of his fame and
achievements. A journalist, a soldier, an orator, a statesman, a rebel.
Yes, he was a rebel; and, better still, now he is a reconstructed rebel.

It is a curious circumstance, a circumstance brought about without any
collusion or prearrangement, that he and I, both of whom were rebels
related by blood to each other, should be brought here together this
evening bearing a tribute in our hands and bowing our heads in reverence
to that noble soul who for three years we tried to destroy. I don't
know as the fact has ever been mentioned before, but it is a fact,
nevertheless. Colonel Watterson and I were both rebels, and we are blood
relations. I was a second lieutenant in a Confederate company for a
while--oh, I could have stayed on if I had wanted to. I made myself felt,
I left tracks all around the country. I could have stayed on, but it was
such weather. I never saw such weather to be out-of-doors in, in all my
life.

The Colonel commanded a regiment, and did his part, I suppose, to
destroy the Union. He did not succeed, yet if he had obeyed me he would
have done so. I had a plan, and I fully intended to drive General Grant
into the Pacific Ocean--if I could get transportation. I told Colonel
Watterson about it. I told him what he had to do. What I wanted him to
do was to surround the Eastern army and wait until I came up. But he was
insubordinate; he stuck on some quibble of military etiquette about a
second lieutenant giving orders to a colonel or something like that.
And what was the consequence? The Union was preserved. This is the first
time I believe that that secret has ever been revealed.

No one outside of the family circle, I think, knew it before; but there
the facts are. Watterson saved the Union; yes, he saved the Union. And
yet there he sits, and not a step has been taken or a movement made
toward granting him a pension. That is the way things are done. It is
a case where some blushing ought to be done. You ought to blush, and I
ought to blush, and he--well, he's a little out of practice now.






ROBERT FULTON FUND



ADDRESS MADE ON THE EVENING OF APRIL 19, 1906

Mr. Clemens had been asked to address the association by Gen.
Frederick D. Grant, president. He was offered a fee of $1,000,
but refused it, saying:

"I shall be glad to do it, but I must stipulate that you keep
the $1,000, and add it to the Memorial Fund as my contribution
to erect a monument in New York to the memory of the man who
applied steam to navigation. "

At this meeting Mr. Clemens made this formal announcement from
the platform:

"This is my last appearance on the paid platform. I shall not
retire from the gratis platform until I am buried, and courtesy
will compel me to keep still and not disturb the others. Now,
since I must, I shall say good-bye. I see many faces in this
audience well known to me. They are all my friends, and I feel
that those I don't know are my friends, too. I wish to
consider that you represent the nation, and that in saying
good-bye to you I am saying good-bye to the nation. In the
great name of humanity, let me say this final word: I offer an
appeal in behalf of that vast, pathetic multitude of fathers,
mothers, and helpless little children. They were sheltered and
happy two days ago. Now they are wandering, forlorn, hopeless,
and homeless, the victims of a great disaster. So I beg of
you, I beg of you, to open your hearts and open your purses and
remember San Francisco, the smitten city. "

I wish to deliver a historical address. I've been studying the history
of---er--a--let me see--a [then he stopped in confusion, and walked over to
Gen. Fred D. Grant, who sat at the head of the platform. He leaned
over in a whisper, and then returned to the front of the stage and
continued]. Oh yes! I've been studying Robert Fulton. I've been studying
a biographical sketch of Robert Fulton, the inventor of--er--a--let's
see--ah yes, the inventor of the electric telegraph and the Morse
sewing--machine. Also, I understand he invented the air--diria--pshaw! I
have it at last--the dirigible balloon. Yes, the dirigible--but it is a
difficult word, and I don't see why anybody should marry a couple of
words like that when they don't want to be married at all and are likely
to quarrel with each other all the time. I should put that couple
of words under the ban of the United States Supreme Court, under its
decision of a few days ago, and take 'em out and drown 'em.

I used to know Fulton. It used to do me good to see him dashing through
the town on a wild broncho.

And Fulton was born in---er--a--Well, it doesn't make much difference where
he was born, does it? I remember a man who came to interview me once,
to get a sketch of my life. I consulted with a friend--a practical
man--before he came, to know how I should treat him.

"Whenever you give the interviewer a fact," he said, "give him another
fact that will contradict it. Then he'll go away with a jumble that
he can't use at all. Be gentle, be sweet, smile like an idiot--just be
natural. " That's what my friend told me to do, and I did it.

"Where were you born? " asked the interviewer.

"Well-er-a," I began, "I was born in Alabama, or Alaska, or the Sandwich
Islands; I don't know where, but right around there somewhere. And you
had better put it down before you forget it. "

"But you weren't born in all those places," he said.

"Well, I've offered you three places. Take your choice. They're all at
the same price. "

"How old are you? " he asked.

"I shall be nineteen in June," I said.

"Why, there's such a discrepancy between your age and your looks," he
said.

"Oh, that's nothing," I said, "I was born discrepantly. "

Then we got to talking about my brother Samuel, and he told me my
explanations were confusing.

"I suppose he is dead," I said. "Some said that he was dead and some
said that he wasn't. "

"Did you bury him without knowing whether he was dead or not? " asked the
reporter.

"There was a mystery," said I. "We were twins, and one day when we were
two weeks old--that is, he was one week old, and I was one week old--we
got mixed up in the bath-tub, and one of us drowned. We never could tell
which. One of us had a strawberry birthmark on the back of his hand.
There it is on my hand. This is the one that was drowned. There's no
doubt about it.

"Where's the mystery? " he said.

"Why, don't you see how stupid it was to bury the wrong twin? " I
answered. I didn't explain it any more because he said the explanation
confused him. To me it is perfectly plain.

But, to get back to Fulton. I'm going along like an old man I used to
know who used to start to tell a story about his grandfather. He had an
awfully retentive memory, and he never finished the story, because
he switched off into something else. He used to tell about how his
grandfather one day went into a pasture, where there was a ram. The old
man dropped a silver dime in the grass, and stooped over to pick it
up. The ram was observing him, and took the old man's action as an
invitation.

Just as he was going to finish about the ram this friend of mine would
recall that his grandfather had a niece who had a glass eye. She used
to loan that glass eye to another lady friend, who used it when she
received company. The eye didn't fit the friend's face, and it was
loose. And whenever she winked it would turn over.

Then he got on the subject of accidents, and he would tell a story about
how he believed accidents never happened.

"There was an Irishman coming down a ladder with a hod of bricks," he
said, "and a Dutchman was standing on the ground below. The Irishman
fell on the Dutchman and killed him. Accident? Never! If the Dutchman
hadn't been there the Irishman would have been killed. Why didn't the
Irishman fall on a dog which was next to the Dutchman? Because the dog
would have seen him coming. "

Then he'd get off from the Dutchman to an uncle named Reginald Wilson.
Reginald went into a carpet factory one day, and got twisted into the
machinery's belt. He went excursioning around the factory until he was
properly distributed and was woven into sixty-nine yards of the best
three-ply carpet. His wife bought the carpet, and then she erected a
monument to his memory. It read:



Sacred to the memory
of
sixty-nine yards of the best three-ply carpet
containing the mortal remainders of

REGINALD WILSON

Go thou and do likewise

And so on he would ramble about telling the story of his grandfather
until we never were told whether he found the ten-cent piece or whether
something else happened.






FULTON DAY, JAMESTOWN



ADDRESS DELIVERED SEPTEMBER 23, 1907

Lieutenant-Governor Ellyson, of Virginia, in introducing Mr.
Clemens, said:

"The people have come here to bring a tribute of affectionate
recollection for the man who has contributed so much to the
progress of the world and the happiness of mankind. " As Mr.
Clemens came down to the platform the applause became louder
and louder, until Mr. Clemens held out his hand for silence.
It was a great triumph, and it was almost a minute after the
applause ceased before Mr. Clemens could speak. He attempted
it once, and when the audience noticed his emotion, it cheered
again loudly.

LADIES AND GENTLEMEN,--I am but human, and when you, give me a reception
like that I am obliged to wait a little while I get my voice. When you
appeal to my head, I don't feel it; but when you appeal to my heart, I
do feel it.

We are here to celebrate one of the greatest events of American history,
and not only in American history, but in the world's history.
Indeed it was--the application of steam by Robert Fulton.

It was a world event--there are not many of them. It is peculiarly
an American event, that is true, but the influence was very broad in
effect. We should regard this day as a very great American holiday. We
have not many that are exclusively American holidays. We have the Fourth
of July, which we regard as an American holiday, but it is nothing of
the kind. I am waiting for a dissenting voice. All great efforts that
led up to the Fourth of July were made, not by Americans, but by English
residents of America, subjects of the King of England.

They fought all the fighting that was done, they shed and spilt all the
blood that was spilt, in securing to us the invaluable liberties which
are incorporated in the Declaration of Independence; but they were not
Americans. They signed the Declaration of Independence; no American's
name is signed to that document at all. There never was an American such
as you and I are until after the Revolution, when it had all been fought
out and liberty secured, after the adoption of the Constitution, and the
recognition of the Independence of America by all powers.

While we revere the Fourth of July--and let us always revere it, and the
liberties it conferred upon us--yet it was not an American event, a great
American day.

It was an American who applied that steam successfully. There are not
a great many world events, and we have our full share. The telegraph,
telephone, and the application of steam to navigation--these are great
American events.

To-day I have been requested, or I have requested myself, not to confine
myself to furnishing you with information, but to remind you of things,
and to introduce one of the nation's celebrants.

Admiral Harrington here is going to tell you all that I have left
untold. I am going to tell you all that I know, and then he will follow
up with such rags and remnants as he can find, and tell you what he
knows.

No doubt you have heard a great deal about Robert Fulton and the
influences that have grown from his invention, but the little steamboat
is suffering neglect.

You probably do not know a great deal about that boat. It was the
most important steamboat in the world. I was there and saw it. Admiral
Harrington was there at the time. It need not surprise you, for he is
not as old as he looks. That little boat was interesting in every way.
The size of it. The boat was one [consults Admiral], he said ten feet
long. The breadth of that boat [consults Admiral], two hundred feet.
You see, the first and most important detail is the length, then the
breadth, and then the depth; the depth of that boat was [consults
again]--the Admiral says it was a flat boat. Then her tonnage--you know
nothing about a boat until you know two more things: her speed and her
tonnage. We know the speed she made. She made four miles---and sometimes
five miles. It was on her initial trip, on, August 11, 1807, that she
made her initial trip, when she went from [consults Admiral] Jersey
City--to Chicago. That's right. She went by way of Albany. Now comes
the tonnage of that boat. Tonnage of a boat means the amount of
displacement; displacement means the amount of water a vessel can shove
in a day. The tonnage of man is estimated by the amount of whiskey he
can displace in a day.

Robert Fulton named the 'Clermont' in honor of his bride, that is,
Clermont was the name of the county-seat.

I feel that it surprises you that I know so much. In my remarks of
welcome of Admiral Harrington I am not going to give him compliments.
Compliments always embarrass a man. You do not know anything to say. It
does not inspire you with words. There is nothing you can say in answer
to a compliment. I have been complimented myself a great many times, and
they always embarrass me--I always feel that they have not said enough.

The Admiral and myself have held public office, and were associated
together a great deal in a friendly way in the time of Pocahontas.
That incident where Pocahontas saves the life of Smith from her father,
Powhatan's club, was gotten up by the Admiral and myself to advertise
Jamestown.

At that time the Admiral and myself did not have the facilities of
advertising that you have.

I have known Admiral Harrington in all kinds of situations--in public
service, on the platform, and in the chain-gang now and then--but it was
a mistake. A case of mistaken identity. I do not think it is at all a
necessity to tell you Admiral Harrington's public history. You know that
it is in the histories. I am not here to tell you anything about his
public life, but to expose his private life.

I am something of a poet. When the great poet laureate, Tennyson, died,
and I found that the place was open, I tried to get it--but I did not
get it. Anybody can write the first line of a poem, but it is a very
difficult task to make the second line rhyme with the first. When I was
down in Australia there were two towns named Johnswood and Par-am. I
made this rhyme:



"The people of Johnswood are pious and good;
The people of Par-am they don't care a----. "

I do not want to compliment Admiral Harrington, but as long as such men
as he devote their lives to the public service the credit of the country
will never cease. I will say that the same high qualities, the same
moral and intellectual attainments, the same graciousness of manner, of
conduct, of observation, and expression have caused Admiral Harrington
to be mistaken for me--and I have been mistaken for him.

A mutual compliment can go no further, and I now have the honor and
privilege of introducing to you Admiral Harrington.






LOTOS CLUB DINNER IN HONOR OF MARK TWAIN



ADDRESS AT THE FIRST FORMAL DINNER IN THE NEW CLUB-HOUSE,
NOVEMBER 11, 1893

In introducing the guest of the evening, Mr. Lawrence said:

"To-night the old faces appear once more amid new surroundings.
The place where last we met about the table has vanished, and
to-night we have our first Lotos dinner in a home that is all
our own. It is peculiarly fitting that the board should now be
spread in honor of one who has been a member of the club for
full a score of years, and it is a happy augury for the future
that our fellow-member whom we assemble to greet should be the
bearer of a most distinguished name in the world of letters;
for the Lotos Club is ever at its best when paying homage to
genius in literature or in art. Is there a civilized being who
has not heard the name of Mark Twain? We knew him long years
ago, before he came out of the boundless West, brimful of wit
and eloquence, with no reverence for anything, and went abroad
to educate the untutored European in the subtleties of the
American joke. The world has looked on and applauded while he
has broken many images. He has led us in imagination all over
the globe. With him as our guide we have traversed alike the
Mississippi and the Sea of Galilee. At his bidding we have
laughed at a thousand absurdities. By a laborious process of
reasoning he has convinced us that the Egyptian mummies are
actually dead. He has held us spellbound upon the plain at the
foot of the great Sphinx, and we have joined him in weeping
bitter tears at the tomb of Adam. To-night we greet him in the
flesh. What name is there in literature that can be likened to
his? Perhaps some of the distinguished gentlemen about this
table can tell us, but I know of none. Himself his only
parallel! "

MR. PRESIDENT, GENTLEMEN, AND FELLOW-MEMBERS OF THE LOTOS CLUB,--I have
seldom in my lifetime listened to compliments so felicitously phrased
or so well deserved. I return thanks for them from a full heart and an
appreciative spirit, and I will say this in self-defence: While I am
charged with having no reverence for anything, I wish to say that I have
reverence for the man who can utter such truths, and I also have a deep
reverence and a sincere one for a club that can do such justice to me.
To be the chief guest of such a club is something to be envied, and if
I read your countenances rightly I am envied. I am glad to see this club
in such palatial quarters. I remember it twenty years ago when it was
housed in a stable.

Now when I was studying for the ministry there were two or three things
that struck my attention particularly. At the first banquet mentioned
in history that other prodigal son who came back from his travels was
invited to stand up and have his say. They were all there, his brethren,
David and Goliath, and--er, and if he had had such experience as I have
had he would have waited until those other people got through talking.
He got up and testified to all his failings. Now if he had waited before
telling all about his riotous living until the others had spoken he
might not have given himself away as he did, and I think that I would
give myself away if I should go on. I think I'd better wait until the
others hand in their testimony; then if it is necessary for me to make
an explanation, I will get up and explain, and if I cannot do that, I'll
deny it happened.



Later in the evening Mr. Clemens made another speech, replying
to a fire of short speeches by Charles Dudley Warner, Charles
A. Dana, Seth Low, General Porter, and many others, each
welcoming the guest of honor.

I don't see that I have a great deal to explain. I got off very well,
considering the opportunities that these other fellows had. I don't
see that Mr. Low said anything against me, and neither did Mr. Dana.
However, I will say that I never heard so many lies told in one evening
as were told by Mr. McKelway--and I consider myself very capable; but
even in his case, when he got through, I was gratified by finding how
much he hadn't found out. By accident he missed the very things that I
didn't want to have said, and now, gentlemen, about Americanism.

I have been on the continent of Europe for two and a half years. I have
met many Americans there, some sojourning for a short time only, others
making protracted stays, and it has been very gratifying to me to find
that nearly all preserved their Americanism. I have found they all like
to see the Flag fly, and that their hearts rise when they see the Stars
and Stripes. I met only one lady who had forgotten the land of her birth
and glorified monarchical institutions.

I think it is a great thing to say that in two and a half years I met
only one person who had fallen a victim to the shams--I think we may call
them shams--of nobilities and of heredities. She was entirely lost in
them. After I had listened to her for a long time, I said to her:
"At least you must admit that we have one merit. We are not like the
Chinese, who refuse to allow their citizens who are tired of the country
to leave it. Thank God, we don't! "






COPYRIGHT



With Mr. Howells, Edward Everett Hale, Thomas Nelson Page, and
a number of other authors, Mr. Clemens appeared before the
committee December 6, 1906. The new Copyright Bill
contemplated an author's copyright for the term of his life and
for fifty years thereafter, applying also for the benefit of
artists, musicians, and others, but the authors did most of the
talking. F. D. Millet made a speech for the artists, and John
Philip Sousa for the musicians.

Mr. Clemens was the last speaker of the day, and its chief
feature. He made a speech, the serious parts of which created
a strong impression, and the humorous parts set the Senators
and Representatives in roars of laughter.

I have read this bill. At least I have read such portions as I could
understand. Nobody but a practised legislator can read the bill and
thoroughly understand it, and I am not a practised legislator.

I am interested particularly and especially in the part of the bill
which concerns my trade. I like that extension of copyright life to the
author's life and fifty years afterward. I think that would satisfy any
reasonable author, because it would take care of his children. Let
the grandchildren take care of themselves. That would take care of my
daughters, and after that I am not particular. I shall then have long
been out of this struggle, independent of it, indifferent to it.

It isn't objectionable to me that all the trades and professions in
the United States are protected by the bill. I like that. They are
all important and worthy, and if we can take care of them under the
Copyright law I should like to see it done. I should like to see oyster
culture added, and anything else.

I am aware that copyright must have a limit, because that is required
by the Constitution of the United States, which sets aside the earlier
Constitution, which we call the decalogue. The decalogue says you shall
not take away from any man his profit. I don't like to be obliged to
use the harsh term. What the decalogue really says is, "Thou shalt not
steal," but I am trying to use more polite language.

The laws of England and America do take it away, do select but one
class, the people who create the literature of the land. They always
talk handsomely about the literature of the land, always what a fine,
great, monumental thing a great literature is, and in the midst of their
enthusiasm they turn around and do what they can to discourage it.

I know we must have a limit, but forty-two years is too much of a limit.
I am quite unable to guess why there should be a limit at all to the
possession of the product of a man's labor. There is no limit to real
estate.

Doctor Hale has suggested that a man might just as well, after
discovering a coal-mine and working it forty-two years, have the
Government step in and take it away.

What is the excuse? It is that the author who produced that book has
had the profit of it long enough, and therefore the Government takes
a profit which does not belong to it and generously gives it to the
88,000,000 of people. But it doesn't do anything of the kind. It merely
takes the author's property, takes his children's bread, and gives the
publisher double profit. He goes on publishing the book and as many of
his confederates as choose to go into the conspiracy do so, and they
rear families in affluence.

And they continue the enjoyment of those ill-gotten gains generation
after generation forever, for they never die. In a few weeks or months
or years I shall be out of it, I hope under a monument. I hope I shall
not be entirely forgotten, and I shall subscribe to the monument myself.
But I shall not be caring what happens if there are fifty years left of
my copyright. My copyright produces annually a good deal more than I
can use, but my children can use it. I can get along; I know a lot of
trades. But that goes to my daughters, who can't get along as well as I
can because I have carefully raised them as young ladies, who don't know
anything and can't do anything. I hope Congress will extend to them the
charity which they have failed to get from me.

Why, if a man who is not even mad, but only strenuous--strenuous about
race-suicide--should come to me and try to get me to use my large
political and ecclesiastical influence to get a bill passed by this
Congress limiting families to twenty-two children by one mother, I
should try to calm him down. I should reason with him. I should say to
him, "Leave it alone. Leave it alone and it will take care of itself.
Only one couple a year in the United States can reach that limit. If
they have reached that limit let them go right on. Let them have all the
liberty they want. In restricting that family to twenty-two children you
are merely conferring discomfort and unhappiness on one family per year
in a nation of 88,000,000, which is not worth while. "

It is the very same with copyright. One author per year produces a book
which can outlive the forty-two-year limit; that's all. This nation
can't produce two authors a year that can do it; the thing is
demonstrably impossible. All that the limited copyright can do is to
take the bread out of the mouths of the children of that one author per
year.

I made an estimate some years ago, when I appeared before a committee
of the House of Lords, that we had published in this country since the
Declaration of Independence 220,000 books. They have all gone. They had
all perished before they were ten years old. It is only one book in 1000
that can outlive the forty-two year limit. Therefore why put a limit at
all? You might as well limit the family to twenty-two children.

If you recall the Americans in the nineteenth century who wrote books
that lived forty-two years you will have to begin with Cooper; you can
follow with Washington Irving, Harriet Beecher Stowe, Edgar Allan Poe,
and there you have to wait a long time. You come to Emerson, and
you have to stand still and look further. You find Howells and T.
B. Aldrich, and then your numbers begin to run pretty thin, and you
question if you can name twenty persons in the United States who--in a
whole century have written books that would live forty-two years. Why,
you could take them all and put them on one bench there [pointing]. Add
the wives and children and you could put the result on, two or three
more benches.

One hundred persons--that is the little, insignificant crowd whose
bread-and-butter is to be taken away for what purpose, for what profit
to anybody? You turn these few books into the hands of the pirate and of
the legitimate publisher, too, and they get the profit that should have
gone to the wife and children.

When I appeared before that committee of the House of Lords the chairman
asked me what limit I would propose. I said, "Perpetuity. " I could see
some resentment in his manner, and he said the idea was illogical, for
the reason that it has long ago been decided that there can be no such
thing as property in ideas. I said there was property in ideas before
Queen Anne's time; they had perpetual copyright. He said, "What is a
book? A book is just built from base to roof on ideas, and there can be
no property in it. "

I said I wished he could mention any kind of property on this planet
that had a pecuniary value which was not derived from an idea or ideas.

He said real estate. I put a supposititious case, a dozen Englishmen who
travel through South Africa and camp out, and eleven of them see nothing
at all; they are mentally blind. But there is one in the party who knows
what this harbor means and what the lay of the land means. To him it
means that some day a railway will go through here, and there on that
harbor a great city will spring up. That is his idea. And he has another
idea, which is to go and trade his last bottle of Scotch whiskey and his
last horse-blanket to the principal chief of that region and buy a piece
of land the size of Pennsylvania.

That was the value of an idea that the day would come when the Cape to
Cairo Railway would be built.

Every improvement that is put upon the real estate is the result of an
idea in somebody's head. The skyscraper is another idea; the railroad
is another; the telephone and all those things are merely symbols which
represent ideas. An andiron, a wash-tub, is the result of an idea that
did not exist before.

So if, as that gentleman said, a book does consist solely of ideas, that
is the best argument in the world that it is property, and should not be
under any limitation at all.